Holidays in March: a cautionary tale.
When I was a kid, I loved St. Patrick's Day. I mean, here was a whole holiday about being Irish -- what's not to love? I'm Irish! It was a holiday about me! To small, somewhat egotistical blonde girls, this is the most rockin' of all possible rockin' things. It wasn't until I got substantially older that I found out about all the other fun stuff that's happened because of being Irish, like the wing-binding and the women who had their backs burned or scarred to kill off the wing buds when they were young, so that they could pass for English and marry well. I just thought it was a cool thing to be. Now, I still think it's cool to be Irish, but St. Patrick's Day sort of gets on my nerves. Driving the snakes out of Ireland? What's up with that? I like snakes. And around here, at least, it's mostly an excuse to drink green beer, wear dragonfly pins, and harass any Irish girls unlucky enough to have their wings out for your 'three wishes and a kiss'. Idiots. I don't even like corned beef and cabbage, although it's better than the 'do you want some necter and ambrosia heh heh heh' crap that I had to deal with in elementary school.
(The first time I really started disliking St. Patrick's Day, I was eight, and my wings had popped early -- another unseasonably warm December -- and had time to fully harden and spread, like they have this year. I was feeling incredibly pretty in my little green church dress, and then these big boys from the junior high knocked me down in the dirt and called me a leprechaun and a fairy, and demanded three wishes and a kiss before they'd let me go. I kept telling them I couldn't grant wishes, so they rubbed mud in my hair and ran off. I didn't wear green at all, period, for two years. It sort of sours your outlook on a holiday.)
Oh, well. At least it's over for another year.
And of course, this year, St. Patrick's wasn't the only majorly intrusive holiday in March, whee. Not being Christian, I can usually skip over Easter without much issue, although the insufferably twee Easter cards with the little cherubic winged kids wishing me a very hoppy Easter continue to show up on my desk with no warning or escape. My cousin Kelly used to pose for those when she was little -- a fact that the rest of us will never, ever allow her to forget -- and they've pretty much annoyed me from birth. As usual, we celebrated the holiday by shopping and ignoring it completely, although the severe rainfall last night was not welcome. I wound up having to blow-dry Jeanne with the backdraft from my own fluttery attempts to dry off, because I was totally freezing. Stupid climate. Once my wings are in, I should not need to be wearing sweaters.
Oh, right -- clothes. The one nice thing about St. Patrick's Day: traditionally, that's when all the stores put out their summer-tailored clothes with the built-in wing slits, so instead of being confined to the Sally-Ann and the outlet stores, I can now shop wherever I darn well feel like it. And most places have swapped in their summer chairs, too; we went out to Magic Garlic last night, and I sat very comfortably on a specially cut barstool, and was happy. But back on the clothes thing, it's just nice to know that when I need a nice shirt that fits me in all possible ways for some special event (like the contra dancing), I actually stand half a chance of finding it.
It's finally getting warm enough to allow for halter tops and backless shirts as a matter of course, and the summer bra lines are coming out; Lane Bryant has a really cunning new design that actually fastens behind the neck and below the rib cage, rather than having any sort of straps, and that allows for a lot more flexibility in shirt style. I can get away with pretty much anything but a tube-top, and I can't wear those for other reasons. More and more of the people I know with Irish heritage are actually expressing their wings -- even Angel, and she's only like, one-tenth Irish on her mother's side. All hail dominant genetics!
All hail March, which is finally ending, and taking the green beer, ill-fitting clothing, uncomfortable chairs and stupid boys who want wishes and kisses with it. See you next year, March.
But not if I can manage to move without a forwarding address.
***
Confused? Concerned for my sanity? Click on this link to see where the madness began, or check here to see last month's entry.
(The first time I really started disliking St. Patrick's Day, I was eight, and my wings had popped early -- another unseasonably warm December -- and had time to fully harden and spread, like they have this year. I was feeling incredibly pretty in my little green church dress, and then these big boys from the junior high knocked me down in the dirt and called me a leprechaun and a fairy, and demanded three wishes and a kiss before they'd let me go. I kept telling them I couldn't grant wishes, so they rubbed mud in my hair and ran off. I didn't wear green at all, period, for two years. It sort of sours your outlook on a holiday.)
Oh, well. At least it's over for another year.
And of course, this year, St. Patrick's wasn't the only majorly intrusive holiday in March, whee. Not being Christian, I can usually skip over Easter without much issue, although the insufferably twee Easter cards with the little cherubic winged kids wishing me a very hoppy Easter continue to show up on my desk with no warning or escape. My cousin Kelly used to pose for those when she was little -- a fact that the rest of us will never, ever allow her to forget -- and they've pretty much annoyed me from birth. As usual, we celebrated the holiday by shopping and ignoring it completely, although the severe rainfall last night was not welcome. I wound up having to blow-dry Jeanne with the backdraft from my own fluttery attempts to dry off, because I was totally freezing. Stupid climate. Once my wings are in, I should not need to be wearing sweaters.
Oh, right -- clothes. The one nice thing about St. Patrick's Day: traditionally, that's when all the stores put out their summer-tailored clothes with the built-in wing slits, so instead of being confined to the Sally-Ann and the outlet stores, I can now shop wherever I darn well feel like it. And most places have swapped in their summer chairs, too; we went out to Magic Garlic last night, and I sat very comfortably on a specially cut barstool, and was happy. But back on the clothes thing, it's just nice to know that when I need a nice shirt that fits me in all possible ways for some special event (like the contra dancing), I actually stand half a chance of finding it.
It's finally getting warm enough to allow for halter tops and backless shirts as a matter of course, and the summer bra lines are coming out; Lane Bryant has a really cunning new design that actually fastens behind the neck and below the rib cage, rather than having any sort of straps, and that allows for a lot more flexibility in shirt style. I can get away with pretty much anything but a tube-top, and I can't wear those for other reasons. More and more of the people I know with Irish heritage are actually expressing their wings -- even Angel, and she's only like, one-tenth Irish on her mother's side. All hail dominant genetics!
All hail March, which is finally ending, and taking the green beer, ill-fitting clothing, uncomfortable chairs and stupid boys who want wishes and kisses with it. See you next year, March.
But not if I can manage to move without a forwarding address.
***
Confused? Concerned for my sanity? Click on this link to see where the madness began, or check here to see last month's entry.